Rebel Verses Part 4

Old Dame Peach stuck like a leech to any good bargin what fell in her reach, She never let slip what come in her grip: however they turned she was ready for each; She'd strip herself bare or sell you her hair, or put up a price for her best china ware, Her very own bed in which she was wed would be yours in a second, if only you dare; Of childer she'd lots and would lend you their cots, and although you'd have backed her to lose in a race, Yet at business she shone when the others wor done; and n.o.body ever could stand in her place.

Among all the men she took care of her-sen and was never alarmed at the roughest of tricks, She'd sit in a bar suppin' ale from a jar, till a bargain was driven, her profit to fix.

Folk knew her all round and none ever was found but at one time or other had met her somehow, A good stand-up fight it was all her delight: she would get up at midnight to sell you a cow; She bested the men what came out of the Fen, and the folk from the Wold they found theirsens sold, While them from the Heath they was allers beneath; for however they tried they was out in the cold.

The top of the tree was our Mrs. P. at swapping a horse or a cargo of tea, She'd purchase old wicks or a truckload of bricks or a house full of furniture, just for a spree, Though she's mounted on high somewhere up in the sky, wherever she is there is business ahead, But I wish she was back when we'd have a real crack on the friends that are gone and the days that are fled; When her shop was a store and a thousand things more; with her busy in-gathering all she could reach: A jewel, a treasure, a caution, a pleasure: Oh! sadly we miss her, our Old Mrs. Peach.

Friends

Years ago, Simply ages; I don't know How the deuce they go: Like turning pages!

We're still friends at any rate; Nothing can invalidate The fun we had, Good or bad, Always together, Not caring whether Earthquake or thunder, Over or under; Joy in each heart; Singing like thrushes Young in bushes: Now--we're apart.

I've never been so happy since then: They talk of the love of women and men, It's not half so true as that of friends; Not pa.s.sionate, not selfish, Never ends ...

Not our fault to be forced away, Destiny came: A wedge: We could not turn its edge; And so it fell upon that bitter day.

We might have had such times!

But--No! No!

It wouldn't go; And after that 'twas never the same; I can't encompa.s.s it by rhymes, Halting and tame; There it lies-- Not to be altered by tears or sighs: We meet, stealing; Eyes on the door; With banished feeling-- But--No more!

Charing Cross--1916

Round Charing Cross in carrion row The crowd press in; a sight to see; Their mouths agape, their eyes aglow, With morbid curiosity.

Those twisted limbs, those bandaged faces!

Humanity all broken down!

The ghostly grim procession races: h.e.l.l's handicraft in London Town.

The b.e.s.t.i.a.l throng with pampered eyes-- Faces of goat or sheep or bull-- All greedy with a glad surprise Of ghoulish horror drinking full.

Heroic citizens, well nourished, Who feast your eyes:--What sight to see?

By you the Coliseum flourished; You thronged, as now, round Calvary.

Love not too much

Have you too greatly loved?

Sister take warning!

Once let your soul be moved, Sable your mourning; If he be satiate, Then an ingratiate, Waiteth the dawning.

Shew not the pa.s.sion That stirs in your veins, Far more alluring To handle the reins, His love ensuring....

In masculine fas.h.i.+on If certain--he wanes.

He the pursuer Must ever press on, Pa.s.sionate wooer Whilst you are a stone; Shew but a touch, Yet never too much And the battle is won.

Man is a monster Made to be stroked, Close then your arms Cover your charms; Great the enticement Of beauties when hidden, Of pa.s.sion well cloaked.

Crazed, he shall plead, For what you yield gladly, Fiercer his greed, For what you give madly; You may have measure Of love's burning pleasure And still hold your treasure....

Sister take heed!

Niccolo Machiavelli

From thy serene abode thou lookest down With pitying eye upon a rabble rout Who strive and plot and fight and turn about, Endeavouring to seize some phantom crown,-- Whether of kingdom or of some small town, Or village--or one single home--their own: They stumble, and with hurried steps awry Blindly they miss their opportunity; Whilst, all the time, thy Golden Book is there, Ripe with earth's wisdom; but they only stare Or pa.s.s along with stupid scoff and curse, Using thy name for 'scoundrelly' or worse.

Of all those who have striven to endow The world with garnered knowledge, only thou Hast for so long endured of thorns the crown; Beneath the feet of swine thy name is thrown; And in the streets thy priceless wit doth lie; So that, alone, the stooping pa.s.ser-by Undaunted by an epithet, may find; And treasuring like gold seven times refined, Open the casket with exultant air To see the Pearl of Wisdom lying there.

Remorse

Pierce you another, pleasure bent, Or wound the helpless innocent; The Holy Ghost shall not relent.

Beyond the tortured body's cry Dread is the mind's dull misery; Remorse, the worm, can never die.

'Oh to repay it,' Judas saith: Who robs the innocent of breath, Certain shall live to welcome death.

The Mandrake's Horrid Scream

Why ain't the Mester back?

Down these owd Fens there ain't noa neighbours, An' when he's finished wi' his labours, He gallops off full crack!

I sits aloan an' shaakes wi' fear While he be rousin' at the 'Deer.'

Them what's in towns has niver tried To live aloan, all terrified; They talk about churchyards at night, Or things wi' chains dressed up in white: Why! Bless my soul! I'd gladly sleep In any place what made them creep!

Coz allers they've a friend about To hear if they should give a shout!

They dunno what it is to fear But--here-- _What's that?_ Only the cat!

An' she's as black as Death's own self, She squats all loathly on yon shelf, Wi' one unwinkin' eye on me I wish the Devil-- No!

Not _He_!

I didn't mean to mention names, Nor interfere wi' others gaames: They saay as cats is really witches, Like Betty Williamson, now dead, What uster wear her husband's breeches An' ate the queerest food, foak said; She set beside her open door Wi' one foot allers off the floor, Quietly knitting; one eye cast To overlook you as you pa.s.sed; An' just the same, yon nasty critter Stares at me now that soft an' bitter!

Oh Dear! I wish my man would came!